Deja View
by SrslyNo
Summary: House woke up with a start when he heard two words in his sleep. Is it a prediction or nightmare? Story based on the July S5 promo, and with the start of S5, this story is officially AU. Less angsty then the season opener.


**Summary:** House woke up with a start when he heard two words in his sleep. Did he have a nightmare or prophecy?

**Characters:** House and Wilson Friendship

**Rating:** PG13

**Warning:** Spoiler from Fox S5 promo. A little angst based on promo.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Just playin' in the sandbox with my House & Wilson dolls.

**A/N:** Saw the promo and decided rather than speculate for months, I would dream up a story to go with it. Then, as so often happens, the plot had a mind of its own. _It's guaranteed to be wrong._

As always, a big thank you to my beta, **bookfan85** for her sharp eyes, solid suggestions, and encouragement.

Please R & R. Thanks.

* * *

"_I'm resigning."_

His body was ripped from its cocoon of sleep as House gasped for air. Where did that come from?

_It's a dream . . . only a dream . . ._

_No it wasn't. It was a nightmare._

He was now fully awake and sitting up in bed. His heart was drumming against the inside of his chest. He looked down expecting to see it thumping under his skin, but of course it wasn't. He willed himself to calm down and breathe deeply.

He shook his head as the voice of his friend and the pronouncement vanished away like fireworks in the night.

_No, not a dream or nightmare. It's a future reality._

Was his overstressed brain working overtime? Was it deducing from Wilson's veiled words and body language that there was something more going on with the oncologist? What made _"I'm resigning"_ pop into his dreams, as if he was punched in his gut?

* * *

He returned to work two weeks ago, but knew he wasn't at the top of his game. Not yet. He felt frustrated at his slow progress, though Cuddy and his team seemed impressed. In the beginning, he was one, maybe two steps behind his team members in a DDx, but now he was running nose-to-nose, and sometimes he snapped the ribbon at the finish line before the others.

If he could only accurately evaluate his progress with Wilson. It changed and twisted upon itself like a Chinese New Year's parade dragon.

At times their bond could be likened to an ancient silk cord that bundled together old love letters from forgotten sweethearts. It never resembled a fluffy yellow bow tied around an oak tree. Now it more closely approximated slick tough yellow plastic stamped with "Do Not Enter – Crime Scene" repeated over the length of it. Preventing anyone, most of all them, from breaching its boundaries.

Soon after he opened his eyes in ICU he saw Wilson standing at the entrance, his brown eyes filled with regret as he walked away.

By the following evening, Wilson returned and sat by his side. Neither talked. House didn't know what to say. Wilson was too drained. It was pathetic, but their friendship hung on small actions such as House finishing the water in his cup, and Wilson automatically filling it.

It was as if Amber was stretched out along side him in the bed, and neither could look past her. Wilson just sat there with his legs extended in front of him, one leg crossed and supporting the other. Sometimes wiping a stray tear, but never making direct eye contact with him.

Communication steadily improved during recovery. Wilson would drop by and say "Hey." House would return the greeting in kind.

Hospital gossip was their salvation. A chance to meet on neutral ground and laugh at others as they shared the same skewed point of view.

The illusion of normality was restored when House was released from the hospital. Wilson arrived at his apartment carrying two peace offerings. One smelled of fragrant melted cheese and pepperoni, the other clanked in a cardboard carrier.

Six bottles divided by two men equaled loosened tongues. Brief, taut apologies and expressions of regret only underlined how much they felt for each other.

By the time House's cane once again struck the polished floors of PPTH, he believed his friendship with Wilson was back on solid drained swampland. He thought nothing really changed.

_. . . And, God laughed._

Something was different.

House requested a consult. Wilson said he was busy playing catch up from his own bereavement leave, and sent a new doctor from his staff in his place. A young, coltish, dark-eyed, self-deprecating oncologist who confirmed House's patient did not have cancer, but suggested that the mystery disease mimicked it. The team warmed to him.

House despised him from the moment he walked through the door.

There were eight opportunities for lunch before tonight's nightmare. The first time Wilson said, "Sorry. I have a prior appointment." The next, "Not today House, the meeting ran late. I'm working through lunch." The third reply was wrapped neatly in a two word question, "Rain check?" There was a string of five more insincere but polite turndowns.

* * *

House was restless. The down pillow cushioned his head no better than a sack of rocks. He couldn't stop the movie trailer from playing over and over in his head now that the two words, _"I'm resigning,"_ were embedded in his mind. Wilson labored in his mausoleum-like office, color-coded folders on his desk that kept score of his wins and losses. He was the undertaker who presided over the burial, laying stacks of paper to rest in brown nondescript boxes.

He closed his eyes imitating sleep, and pulled the pillow over his head while his mind worked out different confrontations with Wilson.

As if he was trying on and discarding pairs of sunglasses, he imagined strategies and ploys to engage his friend in conversation to discover what was going on behind the soft brown eyes. He prepared for battle with a full bag of tricks – from snide remarks to shameless extortion. It would be full-out war.

Of course, that was not how it was fated to go down.

* * *

His first opportunity arose two days after the nightmare. It was a flanking maneuver. He broached Cuddy as she walked through the lobby heading for her office. She said she was busy and had little time to talk, but when he mentioned Wilson's name, she looked at her watch, mumbled something about being late for an appointment, doubled her pace and avoided looking directly into his laser blue eyes.

Her reaction was like a stinging slap on the cheek. He was sure his dream was approaching actuality.

House anxiously waited for a reason to face-off with Wilson. His latest patient proved to be the catalyst. He limped into Wilson's office unannounced and began his dramatic presentation of her symptoms, but the doctor behind the desk didn't raise his head or bother to lift one heavy brow.

Pen in hand, "I can't talk now, House. If you need a consult ask Kaufman again. Foreman told me he was impressed with him last week."

Determined to rouse his friend from his cool demeanor, he walked toward the balcony door. Turning sideways, his forehead wrinkled, his face in three quarter profile, he led with a well-aimed salvo. "I thought we were back on track - you and me, but you're determined to play the tragic Greek hero. Why, you're really milking this bereavement thing aren't you?"

The bullet shot wide and missed its mark. Wilson looked up, knowing it was time to confess. A twitch of a smile played on his lips as he returned the volley in a determined tone, "I'm resigning."

There it was. The damned words were finally spoken.

The disclosure brought relief to one, and an inner shudder to the other.

House stumped back to the desk and towered over the oncologist. The entire repertoire of bullying retorts forgotten in the moment. Needy questions clamored to be set free, _'You're blaming me, aren't you? This is you're way to punish me for Amber?'_ But, he beat those back, and permitted one word to escape, "Why?!"

"Because, my heart isn't in it anymore. Struggling to keep Amber alive and putting you in danger burned me out." His hand pinched the bridge of his nose. "It was probably coming on before this, but after the bus accident . . . " He shook his head, "Now, I don't care if my patients, or yours for that matter live or die. I promised myself long ago I'd never be that kind of doctor, so I'm getting out."

Blue-eyes stared back at the solemn face. The diagnostician wasn't expecting this. "You're still one of the best in your field. You're going to do what? Become a second rate gas jockey?"

"You haven't heard about self-serve gas?" Wilson shrugged, his lips forming a thin line, "Those who can, do, House; those who can't, teach.

The new quarter begins in three-and-a-half weeks. Cuddy and the Dean of Education reached an agreement, and I'm transferring to the med school to lecture on three courses. If it works out, I'll take on a full class load the following quarter. I have a Ph.D, so I could become professor in a few years."

As if a haze cleared behind the brown eyes, a look of comprehension passed over Wilson's features, "It's not about you, House. I'm thinking about what I need. I owe it to Amber's memory and to myself."

House was speechless as Wilson extended an invitation, "Come sit in on one of my classes, and if it's around noon, I'll buy you lunch." The words issued from his lips as if he was inviting him to another of his weddings instead of announcing a major career change.

* * *

There was no going away party. Wilson would have none of it. Cuddy told House that when she brought up the subject, Wilson said, "No thanks. It's not a happy occasion, Cuddy; but, it is a new start."

His last two days were spent talking with staff and chatting with patients.

After Wilson left with the last box tucked under his arm. House hitched himself over the half wall on the balcony, and tested the glass door of the abandoned office. It was locked. He began to pick the lock, and as made headway he stopped and thought what was the point? There would be no surprised or irritated look to greet him when he opened the door. He returned to his office.

Some things change.

In the first few weeks of the quarter, they spoke a couple of times on the phone, Wilson apologizing for not coming around. "I'm still tied up with lesson plans. All this is new to me. I spent all those years as a student, but never stood in front of classroom before. We'll get together soon." He gave no hint whether he liked University life or not.

A month later, House took the initiative and walked over from the hospital to the University end of the campus. He filed into the old wood-trimmed lecture hall to see for himself how his friend was faring. He expected Wilson to have his fill of his 'Mr. Kotter' fantasy by now. He was the perfect mark for smart-ass students ready to exploit any and all weaknesses exhibited by a newbie instructor. It should make for promising entertainment. All he needed was buttered popcorn, and the soda to wash it down.

Almost all the chairs were taken. He was lucky to manage an end-seat at the topmost row.

The layer of chatter sank into silence as a dark haired man made his way to the front of the classroom. He hauled a charcoal gray multi-pocketed nylon case that bulged to capacity. It was a pocket protector equivalent. Sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, but a top button was unfastened. There was no tie around his neck. Traces of chalk dust concentrated around the pockets of his previously fastidious black slacks.

He took up residence at the corner of the desk. One leg dangling and the other leg braced against the floor, he brought out a computer notebook and placed it alongside him. He clasped his hands chest high, and swept the room with a glance to catch everyone's attention.

Wilson began his lecture on various pain medications and how they impacted the nervous system. Sometimes he wrote a significant formula on the board. Sometimes he stood with his hands on his hips as he discussed side affects and possible drug abuse. A light comment strategically placed prevented attention from wandering. He patiently fielded questions from the students and lobbed several back in return.

He commanded the classroom and looked relaxed. House didn't realize until now how Wilson's face had become strained and haunted during his last few weeks at PPTH.

He was surprised that the session was over before his leg cramped and he became deadly bored.

After the lecture, House didn't need to hurry down the steps to catch up with Wilson. Eager students with last minute questions collected around him expressing concern about vague references in the textbook and clarification about an upcoming paper. He waited and observed the interaction between the instructor and his students. He dropped his head in thought. If he could be honest, this was exactly what Wilson needed in his life. Maybe not forever, but at least for now.

The former department head stuffed his laptop back into his protective case, sensing a pair of eyes staring at his back. He swung around, focusing his own on the tall man propped up by a cane, and grinned, "House what took you so long? I've missed having someone steal my lunch. The pigeons are getting too damned fat around here eating my extra food."

"I kept asking for the wrong person. I was looking for the Wonder Boy Oncologist instead of the Mr. Chips clone. Tell your pigeons to go on a diet. There's a new predator in town."

Wilson raised a hand as if to stop House from continuing and returned to digging into the bulky case. Out came a maroon soft-sided container. He tossed it at the crumpled blue shirtfront. House caught it against his chest with his free hand.

"Cashew chicken salad sandwiches are on me."

House's mouth was beginning to water, but all he said was, "Chips?"

"Yeah, chips, and before you ask, coffee too. Come with me."

The two men walked out of the lecture hall over to the faculty lounge, eager to polish their banter on each other's well-honed wit, but neither worried if at first their thrusts and parries were a little rusty.

It didn't really matter.

They both knew they were where they needed to be, doing exactly what they wanted, and walking once again by each other's side.

Fin

Thanks for reading! Comments are welcome 3


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